freedom at 21
by immer wenn es dunkel wird
Summary: from the cradle to independence, and some graves in between. /historical!Belgium-centric - SpaBel/
1. I

_freedom at 21_

_/the exploration of a character/_

Note(s): My personal interpretation on the development of the _character_ Belgium (meaning, I do not take the actual territory in account.); use of European history; mentions of Catholicism, imperialism and general debauchery; employment of historical characters and events; narrowing immortality; expanding immorality; Spain x Belgium. –references to Libertade, mi amor and Difficile est saturam non scriber.

Warning(s): Purple prose and winks at contemporary pop culture; vague sexual implications; _immorality_; battlefields; death; erotic asphyxiation; etc, etc.

Summary: from the cradle to independence, and some graves in between. /historical!Belgium-centric - SpaBel/

Extra: Why yes, the title originates from Jack White's eponymous song. -_listen to it.-_

_I hereby disclaim any rights_.

* * *

_i. macrocosm_

* * *

When she opens her eyes experimentally for the very first time, there is a war against a Mediterranean empire, a common enemy of these various tribes, these warriors and shamans and farmers, and she is born from the realization of an intrinsic difference between the aggressor and the defender. Her body stretches and grows as her territory is occupied and colonized. She is still a vague concept.

* * *

_I. - Rome_

* * *

She does not remember much from her antiquity. Just the scent of worn-leather sandals, laced around muscled sun-kissed calves and the bronze of a breastplate practically glowing in the late afternoon. Branches of olive, which did not grow on her own green meadows or inside her dark forests or along the riverside of Marne nor Seine, were being proffered by calloused fingers and accompanied by hearty chuckles, rumbling from organs stuffed deep inside the ochre armor of the legionary. Soothing were the foreign words tumbling from chapped lips as he read from commentaries of his own emperors and she, faintly, can imagine the amused twinkle in those almond-shaped eyes as he recounts the stories unfolding on the papyrus.

He defines her, this amalgam of Celtic and Gaul tribesmen as Gallia Belgica and he praises her as _brave _–horum omnium fortissimi- with a simper, charming like the merlot fabric spilling from his broad shoulders and the laurel wreath crowning his unruly mop of chestnut hair. She flails her tiny arms in his strong embrace, not understanding, nor even grasping the gravity of his words. He sounds warm though, and this acknowledgement creates amusement and the gleeful chortles quake her tiny frame when he ruffles her wheat-blonde curls.

* * *

_II.- France_

* * *

They speak in curt, ceremonious drawls; these men with peculiar tonsures and earth-brown robes; these men who consider the words of ages ago in faraway places as an absolute truth and conclude their statements with a solemn '_**amen**_'; the very same men who press a small wooden cross against their pursed lips and condemn the belief in forces of nature as heresy. Religious differences give way to the awareness of a community and in turn, the consciousness of herself as a separate entity expands. Her appearance shifts from that of a toddler to that of a child under Merovingian rule, under the precarious gaze of saints and kings.

Sometimes there is a boy crystallized in the chandelier-shards of those memories; he has dimples in his cheeks when he guffaws in joy, holding her mouse-like hands high above her head as they dance. His irises are the color of expensive gemstones, an undetermined shade of blue, bright like the sky and they narrow around dark unsavory pupils in the waves of sunlight, trickling through the shade in numerous needle-points. Golden locks bounce upon his shoulders as they move, those long tresses affiliate him with his monarchs, he had once whispered in a confidential tone, and she likes to twist them around her slender fingers.

In the confinement of castle walls, where the light of a candle clings to the stone like sweat to skin, he ties a ribbon into her hair. It's a piece of cloth, a vibrant vermillion, torn from clerical robes he uses to play charades in. Her body bends over the leather-bound tome as he gingerly wipes stray strands from her rosy cheeks and coaxes her to softly read the psalms in cursive handwriting.

* * *

_III. – Holy Roman Empire_

* * *

From the coronation of Charlemagne by his papal majesty, Leo III, in 800 stems the mysterious trouvaille of a nursling; a reflection of a cherub with his straw-blonde hair and heavenly blue eyes, striking and enthralling, and his cheeks were silken-soft. The emperor immediately demands his baptism and the bishop dips him in the christened water of a stone bowl, where a chiseled serpent embraces the width with a cool, diminutive gaze, They regard him as the representation of an empire and proceed to enrobe him in portentous black. He grows rapidly, this clerical child, and outlives his Carolingian roots; only to be crowned 'sacral' by their successors. She observes this unusual process with the curiosity only her physical appearance could imply.

She wades through tall blades of glass like one would part the waves in torrent; her silhouette is sketched against the horizon, her shadow a blotched transparent black, relentlessly moving, progressing. Her gaze falls upon the lifeless form of a robin, the gray of the feathers glittering in the April sun and she gracelessly, swiftly falls upon her knees to examine the helpless animal. There is no rustle as she cradles the bird in her hands, gently inducing an instinctual movement, but the head merely lolls from left to right. As if the neck is a flexible rope instead of vertebrae. One eyebrow is raised by the lack of response.

One twig snaps as a figure approaches; the heavy robes flutter and flit over the soil. "There is no use in waking the dead." She promptly picks out the adulthood from underneath the boyish timbre.

"Shall we bury it instead?" He seems to consider this proposal in all earnest, irises as innocent as the heaven he ought to represent, and nervously picks his hat from his head, wringing the material in between greedy fingers.

There is resignation in his voice, "Animals have no soul." He studies the Bible every night, underneath the beams of a lily-white moon and the hollow yellow of melting paraffin; he reads and consumes and indulges, strategy and liturgy, side by side. "Humans do." Somehow frustration seeps into the staccato, short but palpable.

She hums at the statement but even more so at the underlying implication; _we are no humans either, we are not flesh and bone and soul, we play pretend_. Precariously placing the robin back upon solid ground, she turns and smiles ruefully. His silken-soft cheeks dust a lovely shade of red, the color of her dress, of her ribbon, of the dead creature's chest.

"Are you afraid of death?" She asks in a hushed whisper, conspiring almost.

His hands seem to scavenge his hat, stretching and bending the material in vigor as he recites, "In manus tuas, Domine, commendo spiritum meum…" He holds out his hand to assist her in standing upright, the gesture nothing short of chivalrous and friendly. However, after the condemning final words of Christ, she hesitates to reciprocate. Perhaps later, looking back upon this passing moment frozen in time, she could draw parallels between the empire and the messiah he paraphrased. Because at a determined point on the timeline, the paths of God would become his undoing and leave his territories scattered like lambs to a pack of wolves.

* * *

_IV. - Flanders_

* * *

Trade unravels over the landscape, connecting cities and ports with invisible threads, sketched upon charts in leaders like the web of a spider. Merchants of various tongues flocked to her markets, some traveling over land and others arriving by ship. Confrontations cultivate the awareness of her own traditions; she matures quickly through the contrast between her culture and those of her trading partners. Churches, chapels and shrines are build in the honor of Catholic saints and decorated with strips of Mosan art. Her embroideries and draperies, fanciful patches of wool, are exported all over Europe and are considered to be prized assets to any court.

Politics leave her fractured and the clutch of the clerical child weakens considerably; especially after the victory of the French monarch in the battle of Bouvines. She fragments into various fiefs, each one bound to either France, England or the Holy Empire but despite the incisions upon her soul, she remains one representation of a mismatched whole. Clans of incestuous lineage habituate her castles and belfries, efficaciously steering her into directions to make themselves prosper and when they are deemed unworthy themselves, the scepter of power is passed down to another house of counts.

She twirls along in circles until she falls to the ground and along with her, the house of Dampierre.

* * *

_ii. transition_

* * *

Under the predomination of Margaret II of Flanders and the second son out of her second marriage, Guy of Dampierre, her weavers encounter difficulty with the English suppliers of wool and the resistance against the shire of Flanders raises. However, the count is amicable towards her and pats her wheat-blonde tresses in passing whenever she abides in his residency, built from stone and mortar. Under the melodical guidance of troubadours, he teaches her how to properly dance the _carola_, joined by hands with his beautiful daughters he intends to use as marital pawns in politics, and he educates her in Epicureanism; the flavors of venison and peacock, the smells of exotic spices, how bread dipped in sauce melts on the tongue and the richness of wine. She looks wonderful in loosely fitted gowns of various colors, her ensembles completed by mantles, brocade cords and jewels of gold.

In a dangerous game of marriage arrangements concerning his beloved daughter Philippa and the prince of Wales in order to fortify an alliance, the count enrages the monarch of France, Phillip IV. As a king is wanton to do in order to effectively spread his authority, his armies march in the direction of the county, bearing the arms of majestic lilies, and cause strife upon various battlefields with thunderous hooves. There is nothing fair about how her forces are defeated, she thinks sadly behind the protective walls of Guy's stronghold, and she actually wonders if the French king is as unmoving as a statue like a bishop once asserted.

Cold winter winds moan when the French take the count and his son away from her; Francis, all serpentine smiles and beautiful gemstone eyes, rimmed by thick, long eyelashes, tightens his chokehold around her pretty neck. She answers directly to Phillip IV, to the fair liege, and when the economical situation in Bruges worsens two years prior to the kidnapping of her count, she sees things unravel from a whole different perspective.

* * *

_I. – Brugse Metten_ / _Bruges Matins_

* * *

She hears terrible stories, about men, _her_ men, entering the garrisons where the French guards are stationed, with weapons in hands and contempt wrinkling their faces, guiding their actions and bringing soldiers to their untimely deaths. She hears about a supposed shibboleth to distinguish the Flemish from the French, about tongues being twisted and fear bursting behind retinas. She hears about blood coating the cobblestones and dripping indolently down the canals. The governor and a few guards, favored by fate or perhaps blessed by speed in their legs, have escaped the city of Bruges.

When the lady of a bedchamber asks her if she wants some warmed milk to ease the shivers racing down her back, she nods dully. Honey, sweet and luxurious, tinges the bottom of the cup when she finishes, but her throat does not warm nor does her tongue distinguish the taste from the milk.

Something boils deep inside her veins, this emotion races in competition with the scarlet blood when Pieter de Coninck, one of the leaders of the uprising, announces he is preparing militia for a war near Kortrijk, she does not hesitate to join the troops as a symbol. She grows because of them and they are willing to seek death for her. They are in a devastating symbiosis of awareness and protection of the awareness and fighting _for_ the awareness. She smiles when they bestow her with a _goedendag_, the wooden handle lying heavy in her small, delicate palms and the pin is sharp and bright.

* * *

_II. – Battle of the Golden Spurs_

* * *

Valor is an ounce of ideology, two thirds of fear and an uneven shred of stupidity: her cavalry exists out of a mere four hundred nobles and when the horses fall to the muddy soil, they tumble to the ground and from their gashes streams crimson instead of azure, while the French forces number a total of two thousand five hundred equestrians with the golden lilies fiercely blazing on their shields and robes. Her opponent compounds his army typically feudal, relying mainly on his cavalry with a core of bowmen and spearmen. She might have numerical advantage, but Francis has experience and tactics. However knights scream just as loudly as any man when they are getting their heads bludgeoned by a mace, she notices in slight panic as she runs across the sloughy battlefield.

Ditches and streams cross the land, proving to be a hindrance for the chevaliers and while the infantrymen proceed to prepare make-shift bridges out of planks, some stumble on and get surrounded by her militia. Holding her hand in front of her mouth in horror as they clobber the squires, she takes a few steps back haphazardly and nearly loses her balance over a bleeding militant. His garb is tattered and the flesh of his leg that she can observe, is swollen and a bruised purple. She drops her spear in horror as he clutches at her dress, fingers folding and unfolding. His knuckles are bleeding.

He mutters softly, his throat raspy and hoarse, "Please… Help me.." His native dialect constricts her chest in recognition and she shakes her head lightly. Tears pricking at the corners of her fearful eyes.

"Oh, _ma chèrie. _Do be a darling and help your soldier." Francis crows, perched upon his white stallion, a sword leisurely in his hand and a spiteful smirk gracing his pale features. "He's here for you. More or less."

Ringlets bounce as she feverishly shakes her head, "What can I do? I can't… I can't drag him.. Can't drag him behind lines." Her voice croaks and shatters, the vocal equivalent of a mirror broken to pieces.

He dismounts his horse gracefully, the blade eerily glowing in the summer sun's rays and he nears her with camaraderie. His irises narrow around the pitch black pupils, his gaze turns predatory, dark and daring while his arm encircles her shoulder and he leans in to whisper soothingly in her ear; "You'll have to be merciful here. You'll have to take my sword." He raises the weapon aforementioned, "And stab him in the heart. _Soutiens-lui._"

Somehow the earth beneath her very feet shifts and transfigures, she chokes out in a shrill high-pitched tone, "I can't kill the poor man!" Scanning Francis' face for any signs of jest or untruths, the girl stares back at the delirious soldier, whose hands shiver endlessly and whose cheeks seem to sink against the very bone underneath.

"Of course you can. He pledged to die for you.. Or die against me." He adds in afterthought, index finger mindlessly rubbing against the stubble on his chin."God will welcome him in heaven." His gemstone eyes twinkle at the very mention of the Lord.

Her stomach contracts as she senses the reasoning behind those words, "God will condemn us to depths of hell."

Francis guffaws and experimentally pricks his blade between two ribs, the flesh squeaks in protest at the intrusion and a groan leaves the man's mouth. "If we ever die, _ma belle." _Blood oozes from the fresh wound as the sword digs deeper into the body. He repeats his former statement, "If we ever die." The militant's eyes seem to roll back into his sockets when his last breath leaves his lungs.

She wins this battle, watches how the remaining French troops retreat, their silhouettes painted against the horizon and the golden spurs glitter upon the meadow like stars flare upon a blanket of night and resentfully listens to the cheers of triumph. She personally hangs a few in the church of Kortrijk and doesn't pause to indulge in prayer. Images of a dirty face contorted in pain don't leave her dreams for many nights to come.

* * *

_III.__– Aftermath_

* * *

Three years prior to the battlefield riddled with golden spurs, she signs the treaty of Athis-sur-Orge to concede defeat; she pays the monarch of France tons of golden coins to compensate for the troubles and gives up the cities of Lille and Douai. When the ink dries on the document, the black a stark contrast against the faded yellow of the parchment, Francis glides his lean artistic fingers through her golden curls in remembrance of their bleeding childhood and presses his pursed lips against her temples.

"Are we immortal, _grand frère? _Are we truly forever?" She wonders aloud and the fragility of her posture nearly breaks the Frenchman. He cannot answer her truthfully because he knows of principalities disappearing continuously, counties being swallowed by expanding empires, but _she_ has been around since the original Roman Empire.

He settles for a rueful smile as crestfallen as the victims on the numerous battlefields that scatter over the canvas of the European continent. "Still mulling over my words, _mh?_ Ah, _chèrie_, we are as eternal as this cruel world allows us to be."

When the plague voyages amongst her citizens decades later, when this disease, this scourge of God, creeps into the nooks and crannies of their poverty-stricken houses in the form of ravenous rats, she doesn't hesitate to affront destiny. Unlike the beak-doctors from Rome, she refuses the protective garments, the aromatic items and the mask with the infamous beak, but simply enters her people's homes in regular dark robes. Her wardens, beautiful noble women who glorify her appearance with grime and jewelry, dare not to follow her down the alleyways of infestation and black deaths; they weep about her self-destructive tendencies. Yet she doesn't weaken considerably, there are no regular symptoms of plague manifesting themselves on her body. No skeleton in a cloak and carrying a scythe who tracks her down; she continues to exist.

Mercantilism luxuriates amongst the cities, like poppies open their charred hearts to the public on the countryside and stand proudly along the cobblestone roads criss-crossing her territory. She often opts to abandon the estates of nobility amongst the woods full of wildlife to enjoy the marketplaces of important bustling cities such as Bruges and Ghent. Her host, a wealthy trader with bulb flushed cheeks, shows her the wares from the exotic East; daggers, spices and multi-colored silk. She sticks one of the daggers through the palm of her opened hand; the pain barely skims her nerve endings although the blood drip-drops to the Persian rug underneath her feet. Her superintendent screams and his outrage reverberates all through the hallways of his mansion. Scrutinizing the wound with a clinical interest, she notes how the hurt barely registers. Her host dies from an infarct, she forgets him all the same.

Her color turns _burgundy_ in the fifteenth century; she and her siblings adjoin the territories of Philip the Good and she especially prospers under the care of the duchy. Paintings and magnificent tapestries become her trademark and she excels at producing wool-woven sceneries of both Testaments of the Bible and also excels at manufacturing Grecian deities in cotton with occasional threads of gold, silver and silk. These masterpieces are desired by all royal households on the continent. She becomes the mannequin of the duchess, who gladly dolls her up in houppelandes of precious fabrics and exquisite prints of pomegranate and artichoke. Her eldest brother smiles kindly at her when she teeter-tatters over the courtyard in her newest garderobe and he gladly arranges her hair ribbon more appropriately. She believes herself to be happy.

After two generations, the lineages of Burgundy and the Spanish Habsburgs melt together by the marriage of Joanna of Castile and Philip the Handsome and everything _changes._

* * *

Part II: the continuation under the Spanish Empire / appearance of Spain and South Italy / more prominence for older brother Netherlands / mentions of love, sex and hate.

I'm not quite sure if I depicted France accurately, but I like to stress how much of an older sibling he really is for Belgium because their relationship is heavily neglected in the Hetalia-verse. Penny for your thoughts?


	2. II

_freedom at 21_

_/the exploration of a character/_

Note(s): My personal interpretation on the development of the _character_ Belgium (meaning, I do not take the actual territory in account.); use of European history; mentions of Catholicism, imperialism and general debauchery; employment of historical characters and events; narrowing immortality; expanding immorality; Spain x Belgium. –references to Libertade, mi amor and Difficile est saturam non scriber.

Warning(s): Purple prose and winks at contemporary pop culture; vague sexual implications; _immorality_; battlefields; death; erotic asphyxiation; etc, etc.

Extra: The in between titles are translated/transfigured lyrics of the song 'Ne me quitte pas' by Jacques Brel. _fyi._

Summary: from the cradle to independence, and some graves in between. /historical!Belgium-centric - SpaBel/

_I hereby disclaim any rights_.

* * *

_iii. microcosm_

* * *

As heads is tails, she may call him Lucifer: he comes unexpectedly, with grins reminiscent of crescent moons on autumn nights and eyes as green as rose stems, and he doesn't arrive alone. His entourage exists out of a bride, blushing like _mad_, noblemen and noblewomen, ships of sailors and goods and a grim reaper in the shadows. In October, in front of the church whose namesake is of a long-deceased saint, he offers her a sip of wine with an interested gleam in those marvelous eyes. He leads her over the bridge and plays with her a game of guesses. When they return, the bridge has collapsed and the swirling water drags festive guests down to their untimely, unfortunate demise. He holds her in his arms as she cries and sniffles, he whispers _bittersweet_ consolations against the coral-red shell of her ear.

He whisks her away and she must address him as 'sir Antonio'. Her brother dislikes him; frowns at his thoughtful gestures and expensive gifts from faraway places overseas, stiffens at his touches and conversations and generally tries to avoid him all the same. When dusk settles over his manor, the night skies are a mixture between magenta at the horizon and an evading dark blue, he comes to her chambers with feather-light caresses and addictive kisses. They dance quite differently than those do at court.

She realizes he is unlike anyone she has ever met before.

* * *

_I. ouverture : cover her body with gold and light_

* * *

Gifted with the art of a silver tongue and an air of almost childlike credibility –the young ones always tell the truth; but he is not young nor does he speak the essentiality of a truth-, Antonio telltales of tropical forests and miles and miles of coasts; of barbarians in loincloths with primitive weapons; of unimaginable riches and heretic architecture and he carries the scent of the ocean around in his chestnut locks. Half of the world is in the palms of his hands as decreed in Adam's will, signed in Tordesillas and Saragossa and ratified by his papal majesty. Joanna, his queen and _most_ devoted fan, delights in his presence and his stories, accepts his presents and treats with a gleeful cackle and her rings are bejeweled with Peruvian silver. He is a harbinger of death to the natives, bringing them continental diseases and gunpowder, and he takes the fruits and minerals of their soil; tomatoes, corn, potatoes, pumpkins, silver and gold.

_Home is where the heart is; the cool sea breeze ruffles the fabric of her servants dress, her eyes transfix on the ship rolling gracefully over the waves towards the harbor of Barcelona and Romano, a child with a temperament of a hurricane, rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet. Her hand clasps around his bony shoulder and a coy smile graces her rose-petal lips as she spots a familiar figure on deck. "What will he have brought us from Río de la Plata this time?" She muses out loud and lets laughter spill from her pretty mouth. Seagulls flock around them, the sky seems made from precious azure and the sun shines as radiantly as Antonio's most pleasant smile._

He establishes institutions in those foreign lands; he calls them viceroyalties and appoints governors to strengthen the trade routes. Joanna, unfit to be ruler after her husband's death, abdicates in favor of her son, the great emperor Charles V, who in turn unites her and her brothers as one entity: the seventeen provinces. The Habsburgs deem them to be a wonderful economic asset to their debt-riddled treasure chest and the taxation is a stake through the hearts of many merchants, who cling to their traditions and lost independence. Her older brother blows the smoke from his pipe straight into the Spaniard's face one day to show his dissatisfaction and takes his leave from the throne room. She keeps sweeping dust and dirt from the tiles with her broom, an unsettling emotion constricting her throat and holding her heart hostage in her ribcage.

_She only wears green and red these days, but he likes her most when she is bare. Vulnerable in pink-tinged maxillas and the plush of her pale abdomen. His fingertips slide down the skin stretched over her ivory ribs, tickling and teasing and causing her to be hyperaware of the hot breath cascading down her mandible. She squirms by the sensations, his lips pressing against her external jugular, the sharp of his canines pricking against the vein and the solid stone of the wall keeps her from falling because her knees are weak and her muscles are slack. _

"He's a leech." Her brother accuses when they are plucking oranges from slender branches, "He'll suck us both dry."

_Love-bites are littered over her throat as he retreats and gives her a grin of pure bliss. "You're so beautiful, mi querida." He compliments her as his thumb fondly caresses her plump bottom lip, pulling down to reveal her teeth and mauve gums, only to trail down her chin. "I am so __**fortunate**__." _

"Why do you tax me and my siblings so much, sir Antonio?" Her body is glowing under a sheen of transpiration, she lies naked above his sheets with his tanned arm lazily slung over her stomach.

His head pops up above hers, the tip of his nose lingers a mere inch above her forehead and he brushes away the wheat-blonde bangs. "Because I have to be strong for the both of us, my little robin." Her mouth is claimed like the civilizations in the Southern Americas, swiftly and passionately and resistance is utterly futile. He doesn't take _no_ for an answer.

_Sometimes he orders her to do these completely foolish and unnecessary tasks; she pours the lukewarm lavender-scented water from the bronze jug into the luxurious bathtub. Carnation petals float lazily upon the substance and his motions cause turbulent miniature waves to splash against the cupper of the tub. He is content and purrs unconsciously as her fingers delve into his dark brown locks. _

"_I might be in love with you." Her hands still as she considers his confession in all earnestness. _

_He considerably relaxes as she continues, a feline smirk playing upon those easy-to-ravish lips of hers, "Sir Antonio, I might reciprocate your feelings, but I need a bit more persuasion."_

_Before she realizes the consequences of her words, he jolts and grabs her upper-arms forcefully. Water splatters all over her apron as she is pulled against his wet figure. His tongue takes command of the entire ordeal, slipping inside her honey-sweet cavern and tasting effortlessly. Her essence is delectable and addictive and __**¡dios mío**__, he needs her. When his assault ceases, she seems momentarily stunned and nervously wrings the fabric of her soaked apron._

_She's still gasping for breath when she exclaims the following, "Well, __**that**__ was certainly convincing."_

_Antonio's expressions transfigure into an immature pout, "Need I kiss you senseless before you finally return the sentiments?" He adds with the flair of a challenge, "You know I will." Her laughter fills the outhouse with an aura of familiarity and everything just feels right._

* * *

_II. aria : it is said that burned lands yield more wheat than a better April_

* * *

She is a remarkable politician, she thinks of Mary of Austria, her regent, although beauty is one of the qualities the queen consort of Hungary does not possess, she remains extremely loyal to her brother, emperor Charles V. So when her dear sibling requests her to levy taxes on the cities of the Low Countries, Mary resentfully complies and burdens the guilds to contribute to a war by which they gain nothing. Ghent, already bitter towards the Habsburg rule after the treaty on calfskin where they are no longer allowed to chose their own deans, rejects the mere thought to relinquish their golden coins. She feels a revolt brewing and flashes of a dirty face, now a skull underneath the grass of Kortrijk's surrounding meadows, reemerge in her dreams. Antonio holds her gently when she wakes sobbing and presses a peace offering against her forehead.

Charles V is hardly as empathic when he orders his five thousand soldiers to march through the territory of France all the way to the city gates of Ghent. He wants to set an example, he claims, he wants to strip those arrogant craftsmen from their peacock feathers and lose them in the winds of authority. Her people do not fight when the army comes knocking down the protective walls, the leaders of the revolt are to take their rightful places upon the scaffold instead. Others are humiliated in their robes of black or white, with the nooses around their necks they march towards the palace. She regards them with folded hands as they beg for mercy against the emperor and his unsightly sister.

_Golden coins chime eerily when they are dropped one by one on a messy, unsymmetrical pile; he chuckles lowly as his emerald eyes, half-hidden underneath the thick black lashes, roam over her fragile frame. Her nails dig into the rope around her pretty swan-like neck and she shakes her head helplessly, messy curls sprawl against her scarlet cheeks. She shudders when he covets her jaw with elegant digits and contumeliously sneers with bare teeth. _

"_Is…Is this your idea.. Of teaching me a lesson?" Oxygen seems a luxury in her current state when he tightens the noose around her throat. Pain is just fleeting, she thinks, while she gazes at him with an artificial smile. Showing weakness would be improper._

_He sighs, but the scornful grin appears to be a permanent stain on his usually cheerful mouth, "You could put it like that, I suppose." He unties the sash around his waist and gingerly places the cloth upon a wooden Gothic chair. "But don't worry, **mi corazón**." His tone conveys sympathy, "I will ache as well." She is yanked backwards by her tresses and his incisors passionately scrape across her chin._

When the Habsburg monarch leaves the city of Ghent, the abbey of Saint Bavo and the sacred church of the Holy Savior are demolished in favor of the construction of a grand fortress. Her emperor orders that the town shall renounce its feudal rights, civic festivals and political freedoms, he breaks their weapons and merges the guilds into easily controlled corporations. Every privilege is discarded and the walls are partially destroyed. She bursts into tears when the hatch beneath the leaders' feet open like the gaping entrance to hell, they plunge downwards and dangle like puppets on strings.

_His palms mold against her hips as he bashes and thrusts and practically splits her in two halves; his face is buried in the curve of her shoulder, sucking flesh between two rows of teeth. Delirium, induced by the lack of sweet air in her lungs, the abrasive cord around her neck and the rampage between her thighs, fogs her brain and her head lolls backwards as Antonio sucks flesh in between the ragged surfaces of his incisors. She barely registers when he finishes with the arching of his spine and that loud groan tumbling out from deep inside his throat, because everything clouds together and an overwhelming white-heat pricks at the corners of her eyes._

_Some men prefer their girls with bruises and Antonio never quite resists to admire the swollen purplish hue around her neck. The marks will fade in time, she is certain, and her pallor will return to resemble the white of marble. He apologizes with a long-stretched embrace and proclaims it was adamant that he portrayed his strength. She believes him. What else is she to do?_

She cannot walk inside the Prinsenhof, the emperor's palace in Ghent, without feeling the phantom's touch of strangulation.

* * *

_III. cadenza: they will dig the earth until they die._

* * *

Serene faces upon canvases distort in flames, greedy hands take down stone statues of saints and trample down the sculpted graven; the followers of the new teaching sully cathedrals and churches, they tear out pages in librarian books and plunder the provisions of clergymen, not satisfied until their own carts are replenished. Philip II, the son of emperor Charles V, is appalled by the skirmishers' antics and stands as champion for the Catholic reforms. The iconoclastic fury unleashed by the two flanks of God helps kindle the nationalism of the Dutch and Philip only enlarges the disdain by sending the repressive Duke of Alba to govern the lands.

_Her brother's face is always contorted in a scowl these days; his eyebrows knit together and the corners of his thin mouth dips downwards. He is having a verbal spat with Antonio in the large courtyard of L'Escorial, the abbey-turned-palace where Philip has taken his residency, and the snarls resound throughout the pillars and inside the shadow-plagued hallways. She pretends not to notice the hatred lacing every syllable, but clutches little Romano's hands a bit tighter as she holds them high above his head. _

"_Teach me your favorite rhyme, Romano…" His bulb cheeks burn a deep vermillion at the wheedling soprano and he almost trips over the hem of his servant dress._

_She encourages him with a catlike smile and he opens his mouth to sing, "Giro giro tondo.." He begins hesitantly as they twirl and the fabric of their garb flutters like whirlwinds, "Casca il mondo. Casca la terra…" She lets go of his pudgy fingers as she takes a few steps backwards and swirls around once more. He finishes softly, "Tutti giù per terra."_

_Curses resound from inside the former abbey, a pair of coal black crows caw in surprise as they fly above the entrance, ominous and disgruntled. She pays the entire ordeal no mind, determined to keep Romano out of the quarrel and she asks, "What does your song mean?" Bending down to his eyelevel, her curls brush against his nose._

"_It's about the world falling down." He casts a meaningful stare at the castle and when he clenches his fists, his knuckles turn bone-white. "And searching safety on the ground."_

They eventually wage war; every pore of frustration bursts open like an infesting ulcer and the hostility is prodded, scratched and provoked. She finds herself in a literal discord, stuck between blood and a budding blossom of immoral, blasphemous love, -_but she feels her heart breaking when she signs the treaty of Utrecht and even more when she signs the one of Atrecht.-_, and as the borders inevitably shift and are consolidated by whatever higher force there is, she kisses her brother's knuckles gently. She bids him adieu and returns to familiar arms and bright, pleased smiles. After eighty years of negotiation, battle and venomous cutthroat diplomacy, Antonio acknowledges her older sibling as an independent state. Flemish intellectuals invade the upper echelons of Dutch society and help cultivate a golden age.

_His bedroom is large, with a four-poster bed and a window providing plentiful sunlight on those scorching summer days. She leans against the wooden frame and stares at the approaching dawn from in between the heavy wine-red brocade curtains, the hem embellished with golden-thread flowers. Faintly, she hears his weight shift on the mattress and his feet colliding with the hard wooden floor. He is behind her in a heartbeat._

"_Are you angry, mi querida?" Carefully, she picks her answer from the whirlpool of emotions in her mind._

_His hand slides down her upper-arm, elbow and his olive fingers lock around her frail wrist, she speaks, softly, "Am I angry at the clash of two temperaments? No, although time has proceeded quite differently then I would have wished, I am not cross at either party. My people's thoughts are scattered on the situation, but I, personally, am not mad."_

_Antonio seems content with the reply and together, they stare solemnly at the sunrise. She surprises him with her next course of action, "Why do you hate my brother so? Because he was disobedient? He wasn't Catholic to the core?" His arms wind around her frame as in habit._

"_Religion, my robin, has spread on my territories in many different forms; polytheism, monotheism and even sectarian cultism. I have seen people die because they spoke of the same god in a distinct tongue.. For my rulers, his people's faith might've caused scorn, but I do not care for such features." She feels his smirk against the back of her neck and his confession stuns her, "I just didn't want your brother to be stronger than me.." Another day commences._

* * *

_IV. recitative: do not leave me._

* * *

His fleet sets sail to far-eastern ports: the Spanish crown expands its influence to the far East, to India, Formosa and the Philippines, starts a lucrative trade with the Chinese for they lack silver and desire the treasures of Peru greatly, and spreads missionaries to preach Christianity as supported by the Vatican. She fills her empty churches with Baroque art, depictions of Christ dying or paving his own demise with good intentions and miraculous deeds and her citizens perfect cartography and anatomy, whether on her ground or under a different banner.

Antonio's control weakens considerably during the war of the Spanish Succession; it's literally him and Francis against each and every aspiring hegemony on European soil and she refuses to take note of how eagerly her brother leaps to the opportunity to engage in strife. After a decade of diverse battlefields and the possible threat of a new Spanish-German superpower under the lineage of Archduke Charles, the war ends after a long-stretched decade. She sees the bitter irony in the fact that peace is negotiated in Utrecht. The Spanish empire loses two of his most precious personal possessions to Austria and Savoy. Romano kicks and screams when the representative of the house of Savoy takes him away from castle grounds. Antonio doesn't leave his chambers for a week.

_Everything is still and dark when she sneakily enters his bedroom, a girandole in one hand, a light linen sleeping gown clinging to her calves and a lump in her throat. Quietly, she crawls upon his bed, holding the candlestick above his slumbering face. He startles awake when a droplet of hot melting paraffin falls upon his cheekbone. She nearly cries when confronted with those marvelous eyes. _

"_Are you familiar with the myth of Eros and Psyche?" Her dulcet soprano comes out marred with grief and parting, "How Psyche holds a candle," she shakes the object to demonstrate her point, "to observe someone, she believes, is a monster?" His chest slumps as he exhales deeply, staring up at her and the ringlets framing her heart-shaped face._

_Reaching out to wipe the wayward stray hairs from her cheeks, he falters as the tears come. "She thinks him to be beautiful. But he jerks away, distraught at the breach in trust and the altercations that will arise… They stick together. They remain wedded.. Do.. Do you know what I see, now?"_

_Antonio breathes out a nearly inaudible 'no'. Light and shadows create a pallet of distorted monochrome upon the walls. She answers, "I.. I see a __goodbye__." _

_He keeps her chained to his chest the entire morning, they coil into each other like frail kittens and refuse to let go until Roderich, dignified and statuesque Roderich, guides her towards the definite farewell._

* * *

_v. transition_

* * *

Time passes quickly underneath the Austrian Habsburgs: she lumbers through the splendid palace of Vienna for a meager eight decades before rebellions stirs deep inside her veins again. Although unsuccessful, the claim of a community to politically govern themselves never quite cease. Roderich has a sharp, narrow bone-structure and he scoffs when she makes a mistake on the piano. He shows her how to dance the polka and the waltz, he teaches her proper etiquette in a monotone drawl and takes her to the opera occasionally to make her understand true refined culture. After a while, he is forced to cede her to Francis after the revolutionary wars spread to her lands like the seedlings of dandelions.

French lies heavy on the tongues of the Flemish; Francis is not unkind in his treatment, he industrializes her cities with the help of English proletarians, under Napoleon, the codex of law changes and becomes semi-permanent, and she, herself, becomes a mannequin for Parisian fashion. _Grand frère _personally laces her in tight corsets and powders her cheeks an elegant rouge, but he refrains from glamorous headdresses. She wears a crimson ribbon, from silk, and he puts golden locks behind her sensitive ears as he urges her to read Rousseau and Montesqieu.

After Napoleon is decisively beaten on the battlefield of Waterloo, she reunites with her older brother. He looks tired but manages a gentle smile, -reserved especially for her-, and welcomes her in a comforting embrace. French is exchanged for Dutch, and the French emperor is forgotten by the antics of the enlightened despot William I. Her older sibling gifts her with the construction of roads, the opening of Antwerp's harbor and a decent educational system. However, religion proves to be a factor that would drive a rift between the North and the South. Her elite only adds to the problem by flocking to French intellectualism.

La Muette de Portici gives way to a demand of more autonomy, but William I responds with cavalry, poorly equipped to defy the narrow alleyways of Brussels, and the whole situation escalates to a full-fledged revolution, she seriously considers becoming an entity on her own. Francis proffers his assistance promptly and the other European superpowers are reluctant to grant her complete independence. They cave when Arthur suggests her to accept the lineage of Saxe-Coburg as her monarch.

He is inaugurated on the 21st of July and she is defined as the kingdom of _Belgium_.

She is _finally_ free.

* * *

-happy indepence day, Belgium-


End file.
